


Don't Worry About A Thing

by Anonymous



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Gen, Protectivenss, Sick!Garcia, Sickfic, Some Good Ol' Fainting in His Arms, Whump, flirty banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 10:53:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14914022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Tt was not like Penelope to not up at meetings.Morgan bit down on his bottom lip - hard. He told himself there was absolutely no reason to worry. He told himself it was strange, but not impossible she got caught up in some sudden emergency and couldn’t make it here in time, or a thousand other perfectly plausible explanations.Most of the times, Morgan would actually be glad to have Garcia waiting for them outside - to spare her the bad-caffeine films coating his dreams. Yet now there was a twinge of something rushing down his spine: a shiver of foreboding.Or of mother-hen panic, more probably.





	Don't Worry About A Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2018 Whump Exchange on Tumblr.
> 
> It's been a while since I last binged CM, so apologies for the wobbly timeline: it's probably going to be a two-part fic, with a spicy Garcia and Derek' banter that can be seen either as friendship or... something more.  
> Don't be so hard on Hotch, he's going through a lot.

**Part 1**

****

Morgan set his coffee down on the meeting room table, watched Hotch storm in with a jaw so clenched the curve of it could have sliced through glass, and knew it. 

_It was going to be one of those days._

You know. One of the never-ending days. Of the days made of endless meetings and pouring over gruesome evidence, of building theory over theory and feeling the grimness of them coat the inside of your mouth like bad caffeine. On those days, the case was usually worse than usual: kids, mutilated bodies, wicked diagrams of minds and people. The consequences more horrible, and more unexpected. 

During his morning run, Morgan daily reminds himself of the goodness of what he does: of how useful pinningdown murders and killers before they can do more damage is, how important it is to halt the chaos, even for just one more day. He usually comes out of those runs half-convinced, and able to breathe through a whole day of blood and terror. 

On the days when Hotch’s jaw twitched with restlessness and the meeting room felt swamped with cold, though, Morgan was never quite sure he’d be able to breathe through it all. 

Bypassing the steaming donut he’d just bought from his favorite place two blocks from the office, he fixed his gaze on his friend: taking in Hotch’s jerky movements as he clicked the central screen on, the painful tension leaking out of him. He looked shrouded in electricity, dark shadows pooling under his eyes. 

Morgan shared a gloomy look with Pentriss – busy tapping a soft rhythm on her thigh at the other end of the table. He’d bet fifty bucks Hotch had not touched something in the shape of a bed since the moment they had bid him goodnight the evening before - and that he was nursing a stress migraine to go down in history, judging by the way he kept squinting in the weak neon light. 

From his place to Morgan’s right, Rossi sighed. 

Considering how well he knew their boss, _he_ would probably bet a grand. 

_Uh oh. This day is, so,_ not _, promising._

Hotch slammed a stack of pictures on the table. The _clack_ was so violent it echoed like a gunshot. 

“Four victims, induced suicide – M.O. varies.” Morgan added a second alarmed _uh-oh_ to his previous evaluation. Hotcher not thanking them for coming, or encouraging any human contact at all as he passed the folders around the table, was definitely another bad sign. 

When the folder of assorted papers and snapshots reached his fingers, though, he started realizing why his boss seemed so upset. Pale sunken faces stared up to him: rope-burnt necks, streaks of deep brown blood coating the white tiles of a bathroom. Young men and women smiling from the archive pics pinned to the front of their coroner’s reports. 

Morgan didn’t feel sick to the point of having bile burn his tongue. A part of him felt ashamed he didn’t. 

_It was definitely going to be one of those days._

“Any common element? Any suspect?” JJ asked. Her pink lips were set in severe line. Ever the clever press agent, she realized reaching out for Hitch right would be like joyfully shoving your hand in a bear trap, and kept to the basics. 

Hotch gave a sharp nod. “The vics were all students at Caltech,” he explained. The screen chirped to life at his back, flickering to what looked like a website homepage: snapshots of cheery, blindingly beautiful girls and boys cut into banners, bold white titles, message boxes popping up in the corners. Hotch tapped a finger on the blog title. “They were all majoring in Engineering, and were all listed as members of this chatroom. Co-founders, actually.” He sighed, the sound an angry rush of air through gritted teeth. “My best hypothesis so far is the unsub is probably somehow linked to the website, too.” The tone made it clear the hypothesis didn’t satisfy him in the least. 

“What’s it about?” Morgan asked, crossing his arms. The coffee steaming and forgotten by his elbow. 

Hotch didn’t answer immediately - frowning at his watch for the time of a heartbeat. He cast a burning glance at the door. “An engineering chatroom - for majors and possible funders. The chats are mostly public, but there’s a private message system - and it was apparently wiped clean by the victims just before their suicide. That’s why we suppose a connection between the murders and the site.” Aaron’s dark eyes flicked a second time to the door. The scowl turning scorching. “ And that’s why I’d really, _really_ like for our resident technical analyst to finally show up.” 

Morgan found himself stiffening before realizing it - the sense of uneasiness that had plagued him since he got to the office finally coalescing into a recognizable form. 

_Garcia._ His lovely, bubbly baby girl was nowhere to be seen - hadn’t even showed up earlier to greet him, now that he thought about it. He had a half-memory of her office door at the end of the hallway, the door cracked open and a slice of screen-neony light pouring out of it: but that was it. No clicks of heels running his way, no early banter making him chuckle on his way to murders and horrors. He had thought nothing of it: had presumed she’d pulled a not-unusual-at-all all nighter to finish up some project and was grabbing some sleep in her plush fuchsia bean chair, and made a mental note of dropping by during his break to bossy her into going home and eating something vaguely healthy. 

But it was not like Penelope to not up at meetings. 

Morgan bit down on his bottom lip - hard. He told himself there was absolutely no reason to worry. He told himself it was strange, but not impossible she got caught up in some sudden emergency and couldn’t make it here in time, or a thousand other perfectly plausible explanations. 

Most of the times, Morgan would actually be glad to have Garcia waiting for them outside - to spare her the bad-caffeine films coating his dreams. Yet now there was a twinge of something rushing down his spine: a shiver of foreboding. 

_Or of mother-hen panic, more probably,_ he scolded himself. As the others whispered among themselves and let their eyes volley between the empty doorway and their fuming boss, Morgan bit at his lip again. Lately he’d been especially over-protective with Garcia, much to her amused tolerance and everyone’s giggling and snickering. He had found himself hovering at her back every time she was out in the field with them, letting his eyes check on her at meetings, just to make sure she was there and solid and safe. He was not nearly as ashamed of it as he probably should. 

They had been working themselves to the bone lately: even Penelope’s unbridled light flickering with weariness and coffee-drenched exhaustion now and then. If that made him want to wrap himself around her like a giant bear and snarl at anyone coming too close, well, he wasn’t going to apologize for it. 

That was why now he mentally kicked himself for not making sure she was okay. And why he immediately twisted to Hotch to mitigate his anger before its object met him. 

“I’m sure she’s coming, boss,” he said, soft-spoken with cautiousness. “Garcia’s never late without a reason.” 

“I really hope she has one, then,” Hotch replied - sharply. “Four good students died by their own hand with no clear history of mental issues, and no apparent reason. More may come. It’s unacceptable. And I want to get at the bottom of this now.” 

A muscle in his jaw had started feathering in time with his pulse. It made Morgan think of the Aaron they found in hospital after Foyet’s attack, months ago - carved out and hollow with rage. 

Morgan’s voice turned warmer. “Hotch… C'mon. It’s Penelope. She’s -” 

“Here,” came a voice from the door. A familiar skittering of impractical pumps, a _swish_ of skirts. “Penelope is here. And very sorry for being so late, boss.” 

Morgan’s first reaction was to smile. It was almost a reflex, with Garcia - her presence in a room automatically triggering a grin pulling at his lips. He turned to the voice, watching as she slid into the empty chair beside Spencer. “Good morning, baby girl.” 

Garcia flashed him a distracted grin. “Good morning, sugar.” 

Morgan keeps the smile firmly on his face, but feels it dim. A rush of alarm shot up his spine. 

Against the vibrant peacock blue of her cardigan, Garcia’s skin looked ashen - nothing like her usual lovely, gold-rose complexion. The only trace of colors were the spots of red flush on her cheekbones. The makeup was carefully applied, but dark shadows rimmed her eyes - glazed enough to look full of tears even behind the glasses. As she fished her computer out of its bubblegum pink cover, her hands were trembling. 

The alarm bells in Morgan’s bones started screaming. _Off, something’s off._ He frowned slightly. He reached across the kid to get to her, to touch her shoulder. 

Then Hotch growled something, and Penelope’s head swiveled to him in a blur of golden curls. 

“I’m really sorry, boss,” she said. _Croaked out, better._ Her voice hiccupped like a scratched vinyl. 

“I hope you are.” Hotch was glowering. “I think I stressed the importance of this incoming case more than enough, Garcia. Where were you?” 

Garcia blinked, owlishly. Hotch was pinning her on the chair with clouded dark eyes. Morgan had the sudden urge to get up and put himself in front of her, a human shield between his favorite lady and Aaron Hotchner’s burning disapproval. 

“ I… I’m afraid I overslept, boss,” Garcia finally said, in a quiet, quiet voice. “I didn’t feel so hot, but I’m here and ready for you now.” 

Garcia swayed on her chair - so hard Spencer reached out for her, putting a steadying hand on her shoulder. 

Morgan realized he had inched closer only when he heard the screeching of his chair against the floor. 

“You’re not feeling well baby girl?” he whispered, meeting Penelope’s eyes. “Maybe you should lay down a bit. We can manage here.” 

Spencer nodded. “Yes Garcia, it’s fin-” 

Hotch was a wave of pulsing indignation on the periphery of Morgan vision. “No, _we can’t_.” 

Penelope flinched. Morgan thought of the pale-faced bodies in the binder in his hands, the horrible shit they were definitely going to see, and bristled at the harshness of Aaron’s words. 

JJ and Rossi jumped in almost in sync. Prentiss followed suit. They called to Hotch, asked competent and very logical questions about the case – and made him stop digging holes in Garcia’s skull with his glaring. 

As the three of them bent over the screen talking in hushed, clipped tones, Morgan gave a nod of thanks to Prentiss and turned to Penelope. None of them liked the idea of profiling their own steadfast, fair boss, but with so much steam to work off, Hotch was a ticking bomb. 

_A bomb he wanted nowhere near Garcia._

Penelope flicked her gaze from Hotch to Morgan, Spencer curled in awkward concern towards her. 

She flashed them another trembling smile. “Don’t worry about little old me, handsome,” she said. “Feels like the boss really needs me today - I can’t let him down.” 

“Hotch is lashing out at anything that breathes today,” replied Morgan. “But that doesn’t mean you have to work yourself into the ground for that.” 

Penelope shifted on her chair. She was setting up her computer, fingers flying sure and lightning-fast over the keys, but there was a tired slope to her shoulders - a struggling rustle to her breathing. 

“I kind of _have_ ,” she said quietly. “After what the boss went through this year, I… well, I…” Her voice dropped to a whisper, thick with things unsaid. “… if I can help him, I want to.” 

Morgan’s heart lurched in his chest. There was such _emotion_ in Penelope’s eyes - such warmth, as if given the chance she’d have no hesitation to scoop Hotch’s pain and scars up and take them away. 

If he ever felt like there were no good people to fight for left in this world, he had to look at Penelope Garcia. 

He shared a look with the kid. Similar thoughts glimpsed through Spencer’s young face. 

“I’m sure Hotch knows, baby girl. And he doesn’t want you to kill yourself trying to help him, either.” 

Penelope tried for another smile - but suddenly her eyes went dull, the color high in her cheeks deepening to ripe-apple red. Morgan felt like she was about to fold over herself like wet paper. Spencer beat him to steady her, soft worry laced in his little “ _oh_ ”, but Morgan still reached out to press careful fingers against her forehead. 

It was burning. He cursed quietly under his breath. 

“Baby girl, this feels like on hell of a fever,” he said. He was officially throwing any attempt at not Mother-henning out of the window. 

“You shouldn’t even be out of bed,” Spencer peeped in. “You should-” 

Penelope blinked. She arched an eyebrow at him. “Lovely boy - handsome Greek-statue-shaped angel,” she replied, sarcasm thick despite the raspiness of her voice. “Don’t take it wrong, and know this nurturing side of you is very, very appealing - but stop fussing. I’m okay.” She guided Morgan’s hand back on the desk, squeezing it her with her pink-painted fingers. “I’m just gonna do my thing, give the boss what he wants, and go grab some awesome pancake-y breakfast. I’ll be fine.” 

“And then you’ll let me take you home and see you to bed,” Morgan said in a rush. He didn't man to say that. He realized he meant it all the same. 

Penelope flushed darker. She averted her eyes to stare at the sleek laptop in front of her. “Well, I-” 

Morgan perceived Hotch’s gaze zoom in on them a second before he spoke. The pressure of it almost physical. 

“Garcia,” Hotch barked. “Did you hear what we just said?” 

Under her fever flush, Garcia paled. “Uh, I don’t-” 

Hotch let out a quiet growl, buzzing with frustration. His brows knitted together; the migraine probably growing harder and sharper. He curled white-knuckled hands around the edge of the table “Never mind. Did you at least prepared the info I asked you this morning?” 

Morgan felt his guts turn into ice. _This morning?_ A quick glance to the clock hanging over Hotch’s head told him it was barely eight-thirty in the morning. When exactly did Hotch ask Garcia to start working? Did he make her bypass sleep completely, in those conditions? 

Morgan’s head whipped towards his friend fast enough to feel bones _click_ with the motion. His jaw clenched to the point of pain. 

Penelope put a soothing hand on his arm, but her fingers were shaking slightly. “I - I tried, Hotch,” she croaked out. “But the website is well-guarded - I needed the stuff I keep here, and I just couldn’t - couldn’t quite get up this morning. I’m sorry. I’m going to get at it right now-” 

The clipped _slam_ of Hotch’s palm hitting the table startled her into silence. Aaron’s face had turned into a perfect mask of marble - bone-white, and unyielding. “So you don’t have it?” 

Garcia blinked. Her eyes were growing unfocused again. “I - Hotch-” 

“I thought I made myself clear,” Hotch cut her off. “This is unacceptable. People are dying, Miss Garcia. We can’t let them down because we don’t feel like _getting up_.” Hotch’s eyes grew so dark they gleamed with blue shadows. “We can’t…” He hesitated. For a moment, he looked as lost as Garcia. “We can’t tolerate this sloppiness.” 

Silence fell thick in the room: the weight of it pressing down on their skin, coating the walls like frost. Out of the corner of his eye, Morgan saw Rossi starting to get up, JJ’s shoulders tensing in a tight line. A feeling of things spiraling out of control caressed Morgan’s mind - but it was anger that filled his chest. 

“Hotch, I’m sorry,” Penelope was saying. _God, she was stuttering._ “I don’t feel well, but I promise, I _promise_ , I would never put anyone in danger because of me-” 

“Yet you are,” snarled Hotch. “We’re off in thirty minutes. Be sure to be ready by then.” 

Morgan found himself on his feet, the chair clattering against the floor with the momentum, hands clawing at the table. He found Hotch’s eyes, and bared his teeth. “Hotch,” he warned, “that’s enough. She did nothing wrong. I know you’re going through a lot, but that doesn’t mean you can-” 

“-I’m simply reprimanding one of my subordinates,” Hotch growled back. “And you won’t say another word about it, Morgan.” 

“Boys,” came the hushed whisper. “Please…” 

Garcia’s fingers were still around Morgan’s arm. He felt the flushed warmth of them, the silent warning in them, but ignored it - gently stepping in front of her to put himself between her and Hotch. 

“Why don’t we put the cards on the table, Hotch?” he said. There was fire in his head, that terrible steel in the clenching of his teeth. He knew he should stop, but didn’t care. _If Hotch was hurting her, he didn’t care._ “This has nothing to do with Garcia’s work. I don’t want to go there, Hotch, I really don’t, but this just isn’t fair.” 

Garcia’s fist trembled as it clutched at Morgan’s sleeve. “Sugar…” 

_Had her voice grown weaker?_ “Not now, baby girl,” he answered, not taking his eyes off his boss. He heard Spencer rustle behind him, slip out of his chair. 

Hotch stiffened. For a moment, he looked as if Morgan had just shot him in the chest, and was reeling from it. Then he steeled himself - clenching his fists in pure stubbornness. 

“Don’t you dare, Morgan,” he said, voice quiet and dangerous. “And Garcia should respond to her mistakes. We all are tired and pulling extra shifts, but that’s no good reason to-” 

“She’s _sick_ , not tired-” 

Morgan leaned further across the table. Hotch mirrored his movement. Then everything slowed down, and happened too fast at the same time. 

Someone shifted behind Morgan. Hotch’s gaze fixed on something at his back, anger draining off his expression like water running through a cracked mug. The fingers around his elbow loosened. 

Morgan spun around fast enough to catch sight of Penelope - on her feet, staggering back, face glowing white against the purple spots of fever on her cheeks. 

“Bayb girl,” he heard himself whisper. 

“I don’t - I don’t feel so go-” Penelope’s words died in her throat. 

In front of Morgan’s wide eyes, she let out a soft cry, parted her lips, and crumpled to the floor. 

Spencer gasped. Morgan sprinted. 

He had her in his arms before she could hit the ground - arms sliding under her shoulders and her knees, scooping her up and pressing her against his chest. Penelope’s head bobbed limply on his shoulder, blond curls rushing in a cascade down his bicep. 

She moaned, quietly, but didn’t open her eyes. Where their skins touched, the heat felt scorching. 

“Baby girl,” Morgan called. The thrumming of his heart against his ribs swallowed every other voice raised in alarm, every other sound. “ _Penelope!_ ” 

He had the feeling people were rushing to their side - a blur of faces on the edge of his vision, muttered words and yelps of alarm. 

“She fainted!” 

“Hell - get a first-aid kid Emily!” 

Morgan brushed Garcia’s hair off her forehead called her again. To get to them, Aaron had vaulted across the table in one sweeping motion, so showy under normal circumstances Morgan would have never let him live it down. His boss’s face was crumbling - hands reaching out, eyes soft with panic and guilt. 

Morgan couldn’t deal with it now, though. Not with her burning in his arms. 

He was so worried, hands clutching at her protectively and lips close to her temple, whispering soothing nothings in her hear, he didn’t even realize he had called her by name. 


End file.
